Chapter 24
BELLA
Rosethorne Mansion – Wexley University
“Ellie, I swear to God if you touch that curling iron one more time.”
“I just need to do one more piece, Hales!” Ellie shrieks, chasing a loose golden curl. “It’s frizzy!”
Haley laughs, lip gloss wand between her fingers. “We are already late El, we really have to go.”
I’m leaning in the bathroom doorway watching the soon-to-be cat fight unfold when my phone buzzes.
@LucaWasHere
Happy Cinco, Izzy. The end draws near.
Just days remain of your sophomore year.
Have a drink. Flash that grin.
Let them think they’ll ever win.
But tell that quarterback to watch his hands,
Or I’ll burn down the Wolves and all their plans.
One wrong move, one second too slow,
And he’ll learn what it means when I let go.
“He still messaging you?” Knox says sneaking up behind me.
I jump, click my phone screen off, and whip around. “Jesus, Knox. Get a bell. Don’t sneak up on people like that.”
“I’ll take that as a yes. Any luck figuring out who this Luca douche is?”
“No, she’s on the struggle bus,” Ellie blurts from across the bathroom. “She stayed up half the night trying to crack it. No luck. This guy’s good. Like total Ze—”
“Ellie,” Haley cuts in, voice sharp.
“No, it’s okay,” I say. “I can’t be afraid to say his name forever.” I exhale. “And yeah, Knox. She’s right. No luck. Not even a breadcrumb.”
“You want me to take a stab at it?” he offers, already pulling out his phone.
“You can try,” I say shrugging. “But I’ve already run it through our entire server. Used every tool we’ve got, even Laing’s arsenal. Nothing. It’s like this Luca guy’s a ghost.”
Ellie’s phone rings. She groans, answers. “Yes, Cal. We’re on our way. Calm the fuck down.”
She hangs up with a dramatic sigh. “Boys. Zero chill. Come on, bitches, we gotta go.”
???
Carrington Row is already thumping by the time we pull up.
Latin beats pulse through the marble entrance.
Bodies everywhere, glittering lights bouncing off glass, sweat, and too many tequila shots.
This isn’t your average frat party, it’s Wexley elite.
Cinco de Mayo, Carrington Row style, and we’re the main event.
Ellie shimmers in hot pink trimmed with gold, her curves hugged like a second skin. Her curls bouncing around her shoulders like she just stepped out of a Vogue shoot in Havana.
Haley is a weapon in deep teal, strappy mesh bodysuit, glitter flashing at her collarbones, and a ponytail that cracks like a whip every time she turns.
I’m in deep purple, wet velvet under the strobes, skin-baring cutouts, plunging neckline and rhinestoned fabric clinging like it’s been painted on my curves.
We match without matching. A statement. A Rico masterpiece. One look and the crowd knows that we didn’t come to play. We came to conquer.
“Let’s make it quick,” Haley mutters, smoothing her hips. “Dance, slay, tequila. In that order.”
We move toward the stage and get in to position behind the curtain. The lights dim. A low whistle slices through the noise, followed by Knox’s voice blaring through the speakers like he owns the goddamn city.
“Yo, yo, yo—welcome to the fuckin’ Row!”
The crowd erupts. Drinks slosh. Someone yells Trifecta before we’ve even hit the floor.
Knox keeps going, hyped as hell from the DJ booth. “Y’all didn’t think we’d throw a Cinco de Mayo party without a little heat, right?”
He lets it breathe for a second, the beat crawling in like tension before a kiss. “Alright, Wexley, hope you’re ready to lose your damn minds. Straight from the heart of this savage little kingdom… give it up for the one, the only, The Trifecta!”
Ellie peeks out from behind the curtain and mouths, Oh my god, he’s so dramatic, just before Knox’s voice booms again.
“First up is the sweetheart of the group, our little chaos in pink, Ellie Whitmore!”
She spins out like she’s on fire. The crowd eats it up.
“Next, the heartthrob in teal. My baby, and heiress to the Rosethorne Mansion, Haley Rosethorne!”
Haley struts out, pure sex and power in motion. Every step hits like a beat drop, her gaze locked and lethal. One hand drags slowly down the curve of her waist, the other flicks her ponytail over one shoulder like a challenge. Someone in the front row chokes on their drink.
“Goddamn, baby,” Knox says fanning his face and smiling at Haley.
“And last but never fuckin’ least,” Knox says, voice curling with heat. “The one who keeps us all on our toes. The Problem Child herself, Bella Blackwood.”
I walk out into that spotlight like it’s my birthright. Purple bodysuit glittering, heels slicing the floor. Ellie and Haley fall into formation beside me. We don’t just dance, we dominate.
The Trifecta has arrived.
???
The music fades out in a rush of cheers and whistles. The floor practically vibrates from the aftermath.
Knox’s voice reverberates through the speakers, smooth and hyped. “How about those girls?”
The crowd roars.
He laughs into the mic, loving every second of it. “Wexley’s finest. Ellie Whitmore, Haley Rosethorne, and Bella Blackwood. The Trifecta, baby.”
Whistles. Applause. Someone howls from the upper balcony.
Knox grins. “But don’t sit your pretty asses down just yet,” he says, spinning back to us. “Because it’s Cinco de Mayo and we’re just getting started.”
Then he pauses, hand cupping his ear dramatically.
“Girls, you ready?”
We nod. But before we can move, “Wait, wait, wait…” Knox throws up a hand like he’s about to stop traffic. “I’ve got an idea! Let’s crank up the heat.”
Knox twists a dial and suddenly the room is filled with color. Pink. Teal. Purple. Matching the lights to our bodysuits.
“Let’s hear it for the men who help make The Trifecta unstoppable. Give it up for your favorite dance partners. The ones who hold it down, flip it up, and keep up with every twist: Josh, Sam, and Drake!”
The crowd loses it as the guys emerge from the wings, grinning, confident, and matching our energy stride for stride. Josh takes his place beside me, hand brushing mine. Sam steps behind Ellie, already syncing with her rhythm. Drake shoots Haley a wink as he slides into place.
Knox’s voice lowers, teasing and electric. “This next one? It’s not just a dance. It’s foreplay with footwork. Hold onto your drinks, Wolves, because things are about to get real sexy.”
“Hey Baby” by Pitbull starts. The music pulses low and deep, thick with Latin heat. Josh’s hand slides around my waist, fingers splaying against my lower back like he owns it. My leg hooks over his hip, heels clicking as we move in perfect rhythm—chest to chest, breath to breath.
Ellie’s already spinning, hair flying as Sam dips her so low the crowd gasps. Drake catches Haley mid-turn, their bodies locking in a slow grind that oozes danger and desire. Every move is sharp, intentional, and way too filthy for a school-sponsored event.
But this is The Row, and at The Row? Rules don’t apply.
We twist. We drop. We flip. Perfectly in sync.
The guys lift us like we weigh nothing, pressing us tight before spinning us away, only to yank us right back in. Heat builds in the space between our bodies, in the friction of hands sliding down curves and hips snapping to the beat.
And right as Pitbull drops that line about Dade County, the other four freeze in place.
Our turn.
Josh slides one hand up my thigh, the other gripping my waist as he spins me into him, fast and fluid, like we’ve danced this dance a hundred times in another life. Our chests collide, breath catching, but the rhythm doesn’t break.
His lips brush my cheek, not a kiss, just a tease.
I hook my arm around the back of his neck, and then we’re moving.
Fast feet. Faster hips. Every twist a dare, every step a challenge.
I roll my body with sharp, sultry precision, grinding down with a flick of my hips, snapping back into a tight cha-cha pivot.
He dips me so low my hair nearly touches the floor before pulling me up with a force that makes my thighs clench.
The heat between us is electric. Dangerous.
I ride the beat like I was forged in Miami fire, shaped by its heat and its scars. It’s not just showmanship. It’s release. It’s rage in rhythm.
The crowd sees a girl dancing like she owns the night. They think it’s because I’m from Miami. They think that’s why I always dance to the parts of the song where Pit talks about the 305.
They don’t know I bled there. They don’t know I burned there. They don’t know I’m exorcising demons with every fucking step.
Javi and Knox made that plan for me when Zeke died. They made me the Miami focus on every Pitbull routine. To dance out my grief, my rage. To face it and not hide.
Josh’s hands never stop moving, one sliding up my spine, the other slipping under the curve of my ass. Guiding. Tempting. Feeding off the fire I never asked for but learned how to wield.
The crowd loses it as The Trifecta snaps back in. All six of us hit the next beat like they never left to finish out the song.
Knox’s voice blasts through the speakers, breathless and laughing. “Fuck that was hot.” He drags a hand through his hair like he needs to cool down just watching. “Okay, okay, let’s get the rest of this show on the road.”
He grins and steps forward, voice booming.
“Welcome to The Row. My name’s Knox. Those are my girls, The Trifecta, and it’s Cinco de fucking Mayo.”
He throws his arms up.
“Now let’s get this party started!”
Music cranks. Lights flash. And the whole damn mansion feels like it’s about to ignite.
???
Cal and August stroll up like royalty. High-fiving, fist bumping and winking at every girl they pass. Cal’s got that shit-eating grin on full display, tray of tequila shots balanced in one hand like a pro.
“Here’s to The Trifecta,” Cal says, pausing for dramatic effect. “And to The Order officially having the hottest dancers in Wexley history.”
Ellie twirls a blonde curl. “As if there was ever any doubt.”
“And,” August adds with a smug grin, “here’s to Cal and me kicking off our senior year. Football gods. Order royalty. Living legends in the making.”
“You’re insufferable,” Ellie fires back, grinning as she takes her shot glass.
“But charming,” August winks.
“That’s debatable, Augie,” Haley mutters, grabbing hers.
I lift mine. “To The Trifecta.”
“To The Row,” Cal adds, winking at me as he tilts his glass.
“To senior year,” August says with a hand on his chest like he’s just been knighted.
We clink. We shoot. The tequila burns like hell, but it’s the kind of hell we all welcome.
Ellie coughs once and laughs. “Okay. That one had evil in it.”
“Or flavor,” August counters. “Same difference.”
My phone buzzes in my hand and instinct kicks before reason. I glance down.
@LucaWasHere
Tell Josh to not to cling too tight,
You’re not his to hold, not his by right.
He’s playing a part, but I wrote the play,
And you, Izzy, were mine before he ever looked your way.
He’s attached a screenshot. One Knox must’ve posted to The Trifecta’s Instagram stories. It’s from the final beat of our dance with the guys. Josh has his hand on my waist, my leg hooked up his hip, our faces too close to be innocent.
Ellie leans over. “Who is it?”
I click my phone off. “Nobody. Let’s go dance.”